


The Tipping Point

by ARLTRB



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1253236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARLTRB/pseuds/ARLTRB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eleanor has only ever been the second most powerful person to offer Max a better life. Max could have left several times: for a better life, to become a treasured wife, yet she has always stayed. How long will her resolve hold when opportunities return at a dire time? A look at the times Max could have left Nassau, interwoven with events from the episodes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Boiling Point

Eleanor/Max

Max/F

Warnings: Graphic content Strong -M

 

Summary:

Eleanor has only ever been the second most powerful person to offer Max a better life. Max could have left several times, for a better life, to become a treasured wife, but she stayed. How long will her resolve hold when opportunities return?

A glimpse at the times Max could have left Nassau, interwoven with events from the episodes.

The first chapter takes place before Episode I, as well as between Episode IV and V

This is at the bottom line, a Eleanor/Max fic, but like their canon relationship, it's a bumpy ride for our favorite Nassau couple.

Tristan-Chloe Bennet

 

Nassau, 1710.

A raucous rhythm fills the night sky. The water serves as a perfect mirror as jagged lightening explodes above the surf. The snapping bolts illuminates two faces. Eleanor squints from the second story wrap around balcony. Her lips move silently as she anticipates the thunder, counting down with a 3…2…1. Deep rumbles arrive on a roiled wave.

"Someone is punishing us!" Eleanor groans. A heavy, gray rain, complete with mist and fog blankets the whole of Nassau. They named this particular bitch of a Tropical Storm, Pechas Mojadas. Literally, wet tits. She was welcomed at first; she did arrive at the end of a particularly long draught. People fucked in the rain, up and down the beaches, on rooftops. Then weeks went by as the storm claimed Nassau like a jealous, greedy lover, smashing ships to splinters up and down the shore.

"Relax. It will pass soon." Max presses the carved ivory and jade pipe to her lips in a way that pulls Eleanor's attention from the frothing waters, empty of ships. Max closes her eyes and inhales deeply, chest rising steadily. Eleanor blinks as white smoke erupts from Max's parted lips. She takes the ornate pipe from Max wordlessly.

"Ah. A customer," Max says, peeking over the ledge. A lone figure staggers down the road.

"Customer?" Eleanor says, raising an eyebrow at Max. "He can barely stand."

"Sometimes it means e'll fall asleep right away. If he doesn't I'll give him to Charlotte," Max says.

"How about I pay for you to stay and finish this with me?" Eleanor smirks, holding up a flask of newly 'imported' French Port.

"If you agree on a price with Mr. Noonan, why not?" Max says before disappearing down the stairs with a cheeky grin thrown over her shoulder.

"Maybe I will," Eleanor says before taking a long pull from the bottle.

"Oh good. You're still here. Room 1," Noonan says when Max descends from the stairs. He presses a jug of honey wine into her arms.

"Oui. And you're paying me double for tonight," Max says, noticing the complete lack of girls working tonight. She takes his scowl as an agreement.

 

 

"So I hear you need a warm place to stay the night," Max says, bolting the door behind her.

A loud thud echoes through the floorboards to her feet. She turns to find her customer slumped on the floor. Gathering her skirts, she bends to help the drunk off the ground. Her eyes widen when she realizes she's cupping a soft breast. The pleasant turn of events quickly disappears when she sees the crimson coating of blood on her hand in the candle light. Without a thought, Max drags her to the bed. As her stranger lands on the bed in a tousled mess, Max noticed a few things. 1.) She is quite a beauty. 2.) The entire front of her shirt is soaked in blood. 3.) A blade handle is sticking ever so slightly out from her waistband. 4.) Pirate.

Before Max can decide it's a bad idea to host an injured pirate with unknown affiliations, she's pulling back layers of soaked clothing. It takes a good minute for her to locate the source of bleeding. A thin, stiletto puncture mars tan skin, just to the left of her navel. Max eases her onto her side. She sighs, looking at the door.

 

"What?" Noonan snaps, not looking up from his card hand.

"Rate for the night?" Max asks, hiding her bloody hands in her skirts.

"Three by noon," Noonan says, waving her off.

 

 

"Merde." Max sighs, squeezing a rag over the basin for the tenth time. The water has grown dark with blood. She does the best she can, removing blood from the bruised torso with firm but careful strokes. She pauses when her fingers glide over a blood-slicked suede pouch slipping from the edge of the young woman's waist band. Max quickly runs a rag over the small package before placing it on the night stand. By the time she's done, Max is certain she deserves every cent coming her way. Her weary traveller sleeps, clean and bandaged.

"Where am I?" The young woman stirs on the bed. Max helps the young woman struggle into a sitting position. She carefully slips onto the bed between the young woman's legs.

"In the company of the most beautiful host in Nassau."

"And I was sleeping?" She winces, holding a palm to her belly.

"A shame isn't it? But you have me until noon," Max says, eyes darting to the pouch sitting on the dresser. "You owe Max three pieces none the less." Max shrugs.

"I'll give you one. That's all I have," the young woman says, reaching into the pouch.

"And what about this?" Max says. She pulls a crudely hammered silver tin from her cleavage. Max smiles as she raises the tin to her ear. The unmistakable sound of rolled opium balls rattle against metal melodiously in her ears.

"It's yours if you want it. Not my poison," the young woman says, lifting the edges of her borrowed shirt for a peek at her bandages.

"It's not mine either," Max says defensively. "But in Nassau, you can sell this is a second," Max says, slipping the tin back into her tight cleavage.

"Ah, a business woman are we?"

"Enough of one to know when I'm dealing with a pirate," Max says, reaching for a cup of wine. She swallows a large mouthful before holding the cup to her guest's lips. "What's your crew?" Max asks, swatting curious hands from a well bandaged torso.

"That topic is under negotiation," the young woman says, taking a sip in defeat. Max holds the cup firmly to her lips, forcing her to drink.

"What is your name then?" Max finally pulls the cup away.

"Tristan."

"Oui?" Max stares at the girl, struggling to discern her racial background. She reaches to pour another.

"So, the story goes. A Portuguese Man O' War, Dutch Whaler, Spanish Treasure Galleon, and an armored Asian Junk collide during a deeply unsettling skirmish. Nine months later a strangely colored abomination is born on the shores of a small island hidden in the sea…"

"You?" Max raises an eyebrow at the story.

"I said it was a story didn't I?"

"Triste," Max says, studying Tristan's face. Max leans up against her, tentatively gauging her reaction. A blush rises in her cheeks but she does not take Max's bait. "But I can make you feel better."

"I'm not sad," Tristan says, patting Max on the calf, unsure of where else to rest her hands.

"How could you be with Max?" Max says, sliding down to rest her head in her lap.

"Just make sure I'm breathing before you leave at noon." Tristan closes her eyes, heady from the wine.

"Oui," Max says. "And I'll make sure you don't rip those off, mon cher," Max says, eyes flickering to the bandages.

Max wakes cold with a sheet draped around her shoulders. The room is empty. The last candle flickers, clinging to its withered stump of melted wax. She opens her fist to find a thumb sized nugget of gold in her palm. The room is clean. All traces of blood have vanished. Max blushes when she realizes she's naked under the sheet.

"What the hell happened to 'I'll give him to Charlotte'?" Eleanor teases when she catches Max's eye from the second floor balcony.

"Noonan poppy-ed our wine!" Max sighs as she makes a quick dash up the stairs

"What are you wearing?" Eleanor asks, frowning as she watches Max dart through the empty establishment wearing nothing but a well tied bed sheet.

"Keep this for me until I absolutely need it," Max whispers. She presses the gold nugget into Eleanor's hand before shoving her into a room.

"What is this?" Eleanor says, opening her hands. "Must've been a busy night," Eleanor says, hefting the misshapen gold piece in her palm.

"Nothing happened. Could have been the opium…or wine. Many people grow generous with wine," Max says, shrugging into a tight corset.

"What are you doing?" Eleanor asks, watching Max groom in a hurry. She won't admit it, but she's impressed with how quickly those eyes are outlined. A scowl crosses Eleanor's face when she catches Max's gaze in the mirror, smirking at her.

"I have to make sure I'm decent with company!" Max says. Her voice falls to a hush. "Can you help me? Please?" Max takes Eleanor's hand and opens her fingers to reveal the gold.

"You want me to be your human safety deposit box?" Eleanor asks.

"You're the safest place on the island aren't you?" Max let's slip without thinking. "Noonan wouldn't ever lay a hand on you."

"Ok, save that for later, you're not working now," Eleanor laughs as Max bats her lashes at her.

"Well, technically I'm paid for till noon," Max says. "Should we finish the wine for our departed guest?" Max raises the jug she hid in the bed sheet.

"I thought you said the wine was poppy-ed," Eleanor says.

"Yes. And?" Max says, a challenge in her voice.

"Alright," Eleanor says to Max's surprise. "Shit," Eleanor looks at the gold in her hand. "I need to lock this up before I have more to drink," Eleanor says.

"Eleanor!" Max curses under her breathe when Eleanor disappears into the stairwell.

"Oh thank God," a voice groans. Max flinches when Tristan sags to the floor behind the large dresser. "I was sure you two would start fornicating." Tristan blinks when Max slaps her across the face sharply. "I'm bleeding already, thank you." She glares up at Max when her nose starts bleeding again.

"What are you doing here!" Max snaps under her breath.

"I need your delicate hands for just one more favor. Until noon remember?" Tristan says, waving Max over. Max curses when Tristan rips her bandage off. Tristan takes Max's hand and presses it to her abdomen, She presses her own hand to the other side of the wound. Tristan lies down, holding a swath of the curtains between her teeth. With a push, Tristan screams into the fabric. She presses Max's hand to the wound. A jagged metal edge juts, warm and bloody from her skin. Without hesitation, Max grips the broken stiletto with her skirt scrunched in hand. A sharp tug later, a golden blade thuds to the carpet.

"Foutre," Max whispers. Max watches as Tristan scrubs the bloody blade with her shirt. She staggers to the nearest candle and begins heating the metal. "What are you doing?" Max watches as Tristan snaps the sharpened rod into several small pieces. Tristan grabs Max's hand and presses the jagged chunks into her palm.

"Don't let anyone take this from you," Tristan says, holding her palm to her stomach. A mischievous smile crosses her face as the sound of ripping fabric fills the room. Max stares at the strip of fabric dangling in Tristan's hands. She looks down to see a substantial portion of her skirts missing. Max pauses to watch as Tristan efficiently rebinds her side with the strip of fabric.

"What are you doing?" Max ask when Tristan moves directly to the door the moment she finishes tying off her wound.

"Letting you get on with your night," Tristan says, a hint of smirk on her lips. "Don't worry. I'll be back soon enough."

 

 

 

Nassau 1715.

The tavern doors slam open. The man behind the bar smiles at the figure beyond the threshold. A young woman quickly steps into the room. Drunken conversations pause as glossy eyes rake over the newcomer. Her clothing reveals without a doubt, that she is a seafarer, one from beyond the nearest ocean. Tan skin and smokey, lined eyes sweep across the room. Mixed blood runs through her veins. Several tables of men quickly turn back to their drink. Billy Bones lowers his drink as he strains to catch a glimpse of her face. He slouches in the corner of the room, attempting to hide himself when he realizes who she is.

"You have returned!" The barkeep smiles at the woman, bottle of rum ready in hand. He quickly over pours several shots.

"It has been a long voyage," the young woman says. "But Nassau will be happy," she says.

"Wonderful. It's good to see you, Tristan," the barkeeps says. "Shall I call on Ms. Guthrie?" he says.

"Thank you," Tristan says. "But the captain won't be here for another week or so."

A young man, barely two months into the Nassau life moves to approach Tristan as she turns to leave. A calloused hand shoots out, anchoring him by the shoulder.

"Boy, do you wish to see the sun again?" Billy Bones grits under his breath. The large pirate effortlessly pushes the young man back into his seat. He watches the girl through the dusty windows as she makes her way towards the brothel.

"Ladies! Your party has arrived!" Mrs. Mapleton announces from the second floor.

"The Crimson Fleet is back?" Several whores throw themselves off disgruntled laps and rush to fix their makeup and hair.

"What the fuck is this all about?" A burly man with several missing teeth throws his ale at a wall as the females completely ignore the current patrons in the hall. He staggers in a half circle and comes face to face with Tristan as she enters the brothel. "What about you, cunt? Still for sale? Or are you waiting for the fucking Crimson Fleet?" He reaches out with a meaty hand.

Tristan's eyes dart to the offending appendage on her shoulder. Without a pause, she reaches out and snatches a plate off a nearby table. Mrs. Mapleton blinks as Tristan's hand whips up in a blur. The edge of the plate crashes into the underside of the man's jaw bone, exposing a bristly throat. The force of blow snaps off a section of the plate lip, leaving a razor sharp edge. Tristan's hand moves in a blur again, running across his throat with surgical precision. The broken edge glides along his neck with ease, leaving a stark trail of shaved skin.

Her hand dips at the last moment and allowing the sharpness to bite into flesh. A flap of skin falls to the ground, still bristling with beard. The man's eyes widen, clutching at his bleeding throat with both hands.

"Tell Noonan I'll cover his tab," Tristan says, turning to Mrs Mapleton. She tosses the broken plate into the fireplace before producing a small velvet pouch.

"I will when he returns," Mrs. Mapleton says, trying hard not to look at the gurgling patron.

"Thank you. Where's Max?" Tristan asks. Her eyes dart up to the private rooms above, finding only open doors and dark quiet rooms

"She's not here-," a younger whore begins when Mrs. Mapleton quickly cuts her off.

"She's not working tonight," Mrs. Mapleton says before the young girl can reveal Max's recent predicament.

"Not a worry," Tristan says. "The crew will be here soon enough. Just thought it courtesy to book the house in advance," Tristan says as she tosses a pouch to Mrs. Mapleton. She swallows when she feels the weight and shapes of the pouch's contents through the fabric. By the time she looks up again, Tristan is halfway out the door.

 

 

 

In the street, Billy Bones watches from the shadows as Tristan makes her way out of town, towards the beach. At the cusp of town, he looks back at the bustling tavern. Flint'll want to know about Ms. Guthrie's prospective exchange with the Crimson Fleet. His head snaps back to the lone woman disappearing down the darkened beach.

"The business will be more important," Billy Bones mutters, retreating into town.

Down the beach, Tristan sighs. The last half year has been busy. Their crew has been growing, as have the reach of their routes. Although she enjoys the rough and hectic life but her sparse visits to Nassau have always come as welcomed relief.

 

"Well, at least the breeze is here," Tristan says quietly to the moon's reflection on the dark water. She unbuckles the thick belt at her waist and stretches, stabbing her sheathed blade into the sand. Deft fingers quickly unroll a large leaf of cured tobacco. Cupping the leaf in one hand, Tristan crumbles several pieces of cannabis into the waiting shell. Within seconds she has a perfectly rolled cannon in her hand. She looks around, content with the distant between her and a sprinkling of tents down the shore. "Pigs." Tristan shakes her head as the sounds of fucking drift over on the night breeze. She squints and makes out a man exiting a tent at the edge of the dismal camp. Another man staggers in. Moments later, screams, distorted by the wind reach Tristan's ears.

In an instant, Tristan realizes exactly what she's hearing. She tucks the rolled cannabis into her waist band. Heat races through her veins as the assault escalates. She snatches her scabbard from the sand, leaping to her feet. A spray of sand showers the dropped sheets of tobacco as her heels kick up a flurry.

 

 

"Are you learning to enjoy my forceful obedience, you stupid cunt?" Vane's bald pirate grunts into Max's ear.

She chokes for air as his hand tightens around her neck. Her fingers grip feebly at her throat as she fights to breath. His hand disappears from her neck for a moment, allowing her to draw breath. The moment of relief disappears as dirty fingers grip her hair roughly. He slams her face down into the sand, drawing blood from her nose and splitting her lip. Max's eyes tear up involuntarily as he continues to press her face into the ground. Sand fills her eyes, nostrils and mouth as he leans his weight against her head. Everything burns as she begins choking on the grit. He speeds up his thrusts, bruising her purposely with the force of his hips slamming into her back. "Did you hear me?" he growls. He pulls out of her, and bends to scoop a handful of sand into his palm. He forces sand coated fingers into Max, relishing at the sensation of her entire body going taut at the new assault. A renewed shriek of pain escapes Max's lips, even the sand cannot hold her cry of anguish back. He moves to penetrate her again when the tent flaps flip open.

Tristan grimaces at the sight inside the tent. A beaten young woman is sprawled face down in the sand, her ass propped up. Tristan winces at the bruised and bleeding mess marring her entire lower body. Tristan's eye flicker to the bald pirate standing above her. He turns to face her, pants pooled around his ankles. His grotesque erection waves at her, slicked with blood and purple with rage. Tristan's knuckles grow white as her grip on the wooden torch tightens. The man lunges for her with a shout. Tristan quickly side steps the charging man and slams her knee into his exposed groin. She slams the butt of the torch into his back as he crashes to the ground. Before she realizes what she's doing, she's kicking his legs open. Her boots land, heavy, blow after blow into the crux of his legs. The sharp sound of blade exiting it's sheath fills the tent.

"Wait! Please," Max croaks. Tristan looks up, actually recognizing Max's face for the first time. Hand shaking, Tristan pulls her blade away from the base of the man's skull. The blade drops to the sand as Tristan rushes to Max's side.

"Max," Tristan says, ripping a sheet off the nearby bed. She quickly gathers the beaten girl in her arms and lifts her to the bed. Her eyes land on a pitcher of water. Keeping one arm around Max's shaking frame, she reaches for the pitcher. "Close your eyes," Tristan says, barely able to bring herself to look at Max's face. Max coughs and winces as the water runs over her face, washing sand and blood from her beautiful features. Tristan pauses when Max flinches, leaning off the edge of the bed to spit bloody grit. Max grips the pitcher and takes in a large mouthful before spitting again. Tristan inhales sharply when she sees the bright red stains imprinted in the stark white cotton, marking Max's seat.

"I've been wondering when you'd return to Nassau," Max says with a pained smile, hands busying themselves with the pitcher in her lap.

"Please tell me why I'm not dragging him to the shore for night fishing," Tristan says, ignoring Max's false bravado.

"I'm paying off a debt," Max says.

"Not like this you're not," Tristan says, gently pressing a wet rag to Max's bleeding lip.

"It's the only way I can," Max croaks.

"Please look at me," Tristan says, regretting her request immediately when Max's swollen eyes turn to face her. "I've always told you I would take you away from all this. I understood why you stayed then, but I cannot understand why you would stay now," Tristan says.

"I-," Max begins. Her head swims as thoughts of Eleanor, sinking pearls and treasure maps fill her mind.

"Shit," Tristan mutters as Max pitches forward, blacking out completely.

She avoids the town, instead choosing to carry Max the long way up the coast, as she winds her way back to one of the secluded inns on the edge of town.

 

 

Max wakes before dawn. The sky is still completely black and the sun is nowhere near peeking on the horizon. She inhales sharply when she feels soft silk against her bare skin. The scent of clean linens and scented oils fill her senses. This is not the tent in Vane's camp. Max looks down to find her body bathed, oiled and anointed with sharp smelling herbs. She rolls over to find Tristan sleeping on the floor beside the heavy rosewood bed. She gasps when she sees Tristan's clothing crusted with blood and filth. A pile of discarded rags sit crumpled near a large basin in the corner of the room.

"Tristan," Max says softly. She sits up, freezing as searing pain runs through the length of her body. She groans and braces herself on the bed. The sounds of pain ruse Tristan from her slumber.

"Careful," Tristan says, reaching up to steady Max, still blinking sleep from her eyes.

"What are you doing, sleeping on the floor like a dog?" Max scolds before she can help herself.

Tristan yawns, pulling herself to her feet. "God I smell like shit fermented twice," she grimaces. Max watches as the sleepy young woman pulls her shirt over her head. She shrugs out of her pants in a second. Tristan quickly leans into an open barrel of water, rinsing and rubbing herself in the wooden container. Dried blood and the stink of a fight quickly dissipates into the water.

Max says, moving to Tristan's side when the young woman remerges, gasping from the barrel. Max sets to rapidly toweling Tristan's long, thick hair. Tristan endures the flurry of flying hands in her hair for a few moments before shaking loose. "You are going to get sick," Max says when Tristan slips an arm gently around her waist. She slowly tightens her hold on Max, holding her close.

"Max, I have just returned from across the world. Before you set to domesticating…" Tristan says, plucking something from her discarded clothing. "Let's wind down, shall we?" Tristan says, holding out the thick rolled leaves. "Come," Tristan says, leading Max onto the deck.

Several stray dogs watch as Tristan guides Max to the stack of poppy sacks sitting exposed under the night sky. She gives the sacks a few kicks to loosen them up before making herself comfortable on the large woven sacks. Max settles into the giving material and pulls her knees up to her chest. She sniffs as Tristan exhales a large cloud of white smoke into the night air. Max sighs, looking up at the stars twinkling dimly in the sky. A cool breeze runs over Max's skin, driving her to lean against Tristan's heated skin. She gives in and allows her head to sink to Tristan's shoulder. Her head snaps up when her split cheek connects too suddenly with skin. Tristan furrows her brow in concern. She quickly hands Max the blunt. Max shakes her head, only to find herself wincing at the bruises mottling her neck and throat.

"Then have a drink. Please," Tristan says. Max's stomach roils immediately at the thought of drinking. She leans forward to the offered joint. She coughs after a notable amount of time passes, enveloping Tristan in a cloud. She closes her eyes for a moment as the painful buzz in her entire body slowly fades to the back of her mind. "How are you feeling?" Tristan asks quietly, watching as Max struggles to keep her eyes focused.

Tristan sighs, watching the girl doze off. The pirate inhales deeply, burning through the blunt in a few long pulls. By the time she's done, Max's breathing is rhythmic and deep; the girl's completely lost in sleep. Tristan quietly scoops the sleeping girl in her arms and moves steadily across the deck, back into her rented room for the night. Max immediately curls into the silk sheets as Tristan lays her down.

"Stay," Max says quietly when she feels Tristan slipping off the edge of the bed. She turns, wrapping Tristan's arm around her waist.

"I'll take you across the seven seas," Tristan whispers into Max's ear.

"Hmm, where first mon amour?" Max murmurs, reaching down to interlock her fingers with Tristan's.

"First, I will take you diving for black pearls," Tristan says, tickling Max's ear. She continues speaking softly until Max drifts off again. Tristan presses a kiss to Max's temple, happy to see her face relaxed, if only in sleep.

In the morning, Tristan will wake to an empty bed.

 

 

The sun hangs high in the sky. Tristan has completed a full round of the Nassau, eavesdropping at different taverns before slipping into loosely guarded warehouses. She repeats inventories to herself, memorizing stockpiles as she flits from shipment to shipment, noting exactly what she needs to return to Nassau with. It's high noon when she finally returns to the tiny dinghy hidden in a particularly rocky alcove.

"The fuck you think you're doing?" Anne Bonny's voice resonates lowly from behind the dinghy parked in the shade. Tristan's hands fly to her waist at the sound of her voice.

"Packing a fucking picnic!' Tristan says, quickly returning the drawn blade to its sheath when she recognizes her guest. She continues loading her sparse supplies into the tiny boat.

"You're a fool," Anne says after a few moments of watching her throw supplies at the dinghy.

"Maybe I am." Tristan throws the remaining jugs of water into the boat. "But at least I'm not a coward," Tristan says, struggling to keep her voice down. "How could you let them-," Tristan says, eyes burning from the memory of finding Max in Vane's camp.

"You put her in chains," Anne interrupts.

"What?"Tristan snaps. Anne's eyes flicker to Tristan's hands, relieved to find them clenched by her sides.

"You were the one who took her last night," Anne states. "They put her in chains because of you." She flinches when Tristan's hand inevitably returns to her blade. Anne watches as Tristan breathes deeply, knuckles whitening as her fists tighten. The guilt pours into her throat all at once, pushing into her chest.

"I can retrieve her and be gone from this rock before sundown," Tristan says, eyes darting to the shadows playing off the coconut trees lining the beach.

"Then what? Have the men drag the Guthrie cunt into streets, blaming her for the lost of their new toy?" Anne says. "I don't think the girl would leave Nassau for that reason alone."

"I would set fire to Nassau and watch it burn to ash and sand," Tristan says. Anne nods, believing every word.

"All for a cunt you haven't claimed? Doubt your crew will stand behind you," Anne says.

"I don't need a crew to kill a few stray dogs," Tristan says, turning to look Anne in the eyes.

"No, but you need your captain's word," Anne says. She watches as the weight of the statement sinks in. "Unless you're not done making rash decisions."

"I'll return soon. Regard her treatment with consideration," Tristan warns quietly. With that, she pushes off the shore. Anne watches as the dinghy disappears around the bend.

"Well that went better than expected." Rackham steps out from behind a thicket of brush. "That whore is truly the gift that refuses to stop giving. How'd you know so much about her crew anyway?"

"You have no idea how lucky you are," Anne says, fixing him with a hard look. She looks out across the water. "Oh, that's right, you've never dealt with the Crimson Fleet before, have you?" Anne ignores him all the way back into town.

Vane listens intently as Anne speaks in hushed whispers. Rackham squints, attempting to decipher Anne's words. Vane's eyes widen for a second before he resumes his squint. Several moments of silence pass before Vane gets up.

"What's the plan?" Rackham asks, turning to follow his captain and woman into the street.

"The brothel," Vane says.

In the next chapter, we'll be taking a closer look at how Eleanor and Max's agreement came to fruition as well as the introduction of the Crimson Fleet. And there will be violence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events from Max and Eleanor's past, interwoven with a bit of ep VI.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Octavio-Chris Hemsworth  
> **Caio-Charlie Hunnan

Nassau 1710

 

 

“Mr. Noonan,” a young girl says. “Mr. Noonan,” she repeats when she receives no answer from the man mulling over his accounts. The man turns, ready to slap the bothersome whore when he sees three, tall men flanking the girl. The women watching from above roll their eyes at how quickly Mr. Noonan’s hand wilts from its striking pose. 

 

“A friend persuaded our captain to visit Nassau.” The leader, a tall, bearded blonde man opens a fist at Noonan’s eye level. Eyes from all floors of the brothel notice two things at once. 

 

Mr. Noonan’s expression is terrifying. The man hasn’t salivated like this since Max turned fifteen and suggested charging patrons for watching the girls service themselves (or others). The higher the price, the large the peephole you got.

 

“Welcome to Nassau,” Mr. Noonan says, unable to tear his eyes from the rock in the man’s hand. “Any room you want,” Mr. Noonan adds, taking the rough into his hands. 

 

And amidst the fervor growing below, all but one of the girls begin committing the rock to memory. Max squints from an upper railing.

 

“Max, they’re asking for you,” a girl calls from below. 

 

“They?” Max says. She swears she has a no groups deal with Mr. Noonan. She takes the bottle offered to her and downs a shot or so. 

 

“First time for everything, love,” Mrs. Mapleton chirps, hustling Max along.

 

“Just relax,” an older girl whispers, pressing a tin of an unknown oily substance into Max’s hands. 

 

 

“Well aren’t you the sweetest sight I’ve seen in a year.” Blue eyes sweep over Max as she enters the room. “Octavio,” he says, bowing deeply. 

 

“Well boys, I’m here to ensure each of you the warmest Nassau welcome. But we will have to take turns,” Max says. She smiles at Octavio, ignoring the other sets of eyes raking over her as she moves to pour a cup of wine. From her peripheral vision she counts exactly three men.

 

“Well, we do believe in sharing everything equally,” Octavio says, loosening the wide leather band at his waist. 

 

“Yes, but does seniority not mean anything to your men?” Max asks, holding out a cup of wine. 

 

“What do you think, men?” Octavio smiles at his friends. Octavio tosses his belt towards the bed. The doors slam open.

 

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” Tristan asks, slamming the doors shut behind her. Max realizes with great relief that Octavio’s pants remain up, though his weapons lay on the bed sheets, dirtying them with black grease and God knows what else. “Enough!” Tristan says waving off her friends. The young men break into laughter.

 

“Funny,” Max says. “You are alive.”

 

“And you are still in business,” Tristan says. 

 

“It seems so,” Max says. 

 

“Listen, if you’re serious about doing business, you have to be smarter about things, little girl,” Octavio says, striding right into Max’s personal space. She finds herself staring into his chest, the top of her head a finger's width under his pectorals. The constant twinge of pain in her feet confirm that she’s in raised footwear. 

 

“What he means is, don’t ever go into a room full of strange men alone again.” Tristan slaps Octavio in the shoulder roughly with an open palm. “Tavio. Fucking behave.” Octavio allows the next shove to push him back. 

 

“Men?” Octavio says, snatching the wine pitcher from the table. “Let’s give the ladies a minute,” he says, motioning for the men to follow him onto the balcony. Max watches as they clear out of the room.

 

“Charming,” Max says. 

 

“He’s right though. You’re still so green,” Tristan says. “Worry more for yourself than the gold.”

 

“Easy to say when the two are so clearly separated for you,” Max says. 

 

The room is quiet for a moment as the statement sinks in. Tristan coughs and leans on the edge of the bed. Max watches with interest as she unfolds a stiff wad of linen wrapped parchment. Tristan holds out a pile of tumbled stones in her palm. “From the Portuguese colonies down south. Four to six thousand.”

 

“Mon Dieu,”Max whispers.

 

“A piece.” Tristan fixes a hard look on her. 

 

“What?” Max asks.

 

“If you give everything away, you will never leave a deal the beneficiary.” Tristan frowns. “Just. A card game or something.”

 

“Ok! What do you want me to do?” Max asks, growing annoyed. 

 

“Find a buyer.” Tristan says. Max opens a cabinet door, covering a peephole from the next room. Tristan watches as she stuffs a rag into the opening for good measure. “Nice. How much is the going rate for a room with a view?” Tristan asks.

 

“Ta gueule!” Max says, pulling Tristan towards the other end of the room. “This isn’t just a little bit of opium.” Octavio watches their exchange from the balcony.

 

“So isn’t it about time you increased your product range?,” Tristan says. “How about this. On top of your broker’s fee, the boys and I will buy you out for a week. All you have to do is help us sort this out. You don’t have to fuck any of us if you don’t want to.” Tristan ignores the disappointed glares coming at her from the balcony.

 

“But, Mr. Noonan,” Max says. 

 

“Fuck ‘im!” Octavio yells through the shutters on the balcony. 

 

“We’ll handle him,” Tristan says. “Look. If this is above your pay grade, we can find someone else.” 

 

“Non,” Max says. “I'm the girl for the job.”

 

 

 

A setting sun fills Eleanor’s office with light. Stacks of orders and accounts overflow from Eleanor's desk. Richard Guthrie's departure, while a delight, has flooded Eleanor's carefree life with non stop calls to meetings and exchanges. Mr. Scott shuffles a stack of deposit slips recovered from the space behind Eleanor's chair.

 

“It's been quite a season.” Mr. Scott smiles as he skims through numbers.

 

“Yes, and thank God the transition has been smooth, thus-far,” Eleanor says. A light knock at the door catches Mr. Scott's ear.

 

“Who is it?” Mr. Scott calls.

 

“One of Noonan's girls. For Ms. Guthrie,” a says, voice muffled by the door. 

 

“Really Ms. Guthrie. I doubt your father would appreciate you hosting such company in the office.” A blushes spreads on Eleanor's cheeks.

 

“Mr. Scott, isn’t there a delivery of sugar coming in about now?” Eleanor says.

 

“I’ll see to it,” Mr. Scott says, fixing Eleanor with a patronizing look. 

 

 

Max sits at a table, waiting for Eleanor to emerge from the office. A voice jolts her from her thoughts.

 

“So, what’s this pretty little bird doing out of her cage?” Vane’s voice creeps over Max’s shoulder. 

 

“Sorry. I’ve been told not to work with men from your crew,” Max says.

 

“Really? Who would say such a thing?” Vane asks. 

 

“Anyone with a sane mind,” Eleanor says, descending down the stairs. 

 

“Coming from the crazy bitch who runs this town,” Vane says with a smile. Max internally cringes at the admiration in his voice. 

 

“What can I do for you?” Eleanor says, waving Max up the stairs. 

 

“The question is, what can I do for you?” Vane asks. Eleanor blushes, catching the end of a particularly wordy curse in French coming from Max.

 

“You can go,” Eleanor say, offering him a crude gesture. “A horse,” Eleanor says from the railing, translating the tail end of Max’s words.

 

“I could. But. I’ve grown tired of playing with myself,” Vane says. 

 

“Come on,” Eleanor says, pushing Max towards her office. “Not that I don’t thoroughly enjoy your company, but what are you doing here Max?” Eleanor says, locking her office doors.“I can't believe Noonan let you off the leash tonight.” It doesn’t go unnoticed that this is the first time Eleanor and Max have been alone in her office. 

 

“Well, that is just the thing,” Max says. She quickly moves to the Guthrie’s extensive liquor cabinet. She fetches a cup and pours generously from the bottle of cachaça Tristan left in her room. She crumbles several chunks of brown rock sugar into the drink with a generous squeeze of lime. “My services have been reserved by a crew. For the week,” Max says. “And judging by the amount they paid, Noonan's quite happy with letting me work out of house.”

 

“Are you insane? This is how girls are taken every time a new crew stops here,” Eleanor says, gripping Max’s shoulders in her hands. Growing up in Nassau, Eleanor could fill a two story library with all the horror stories she's heard about how men on ships and pretty young girls don’t mix.

 

“Wait. There’s more,” Max says, pushing Eleanor into a chair. She swings a leg over, gracefully settling in Eleanor's lap. “I have a proposition for you,” Max says, pressing a cup into Eleanor's hands. Eleanor takes a large gulp, trying not stare at the blossoming wells of tan breast in her face. A mixture of burning and sweetness seizes Eleanor’s throat as she swallows. Max places a piece of the rock sugar on Eleanor’s lip, allowing her thumb to linger for a moment longer than either expected. 

 

“I'm listening,” Eleanor says, holding the sweet crystal on her tongue. 

 

“I know someone who needs to sell something very valuable. And you're the best person for dealing with such things,” Max says.

 

“And why haven't they come to me directly?” Eleanor asks, the business side of her brain firing up. She sits up in the chair, throwing Max off kilter. Max quickly grabs on to Eleanor's shoulder.

 

“We're dealing with something of high value. Something the pirates here would kill for in a heart beat,” Max says, watching Eleanor's face grow lost in thought. She slips off Eleanor’s lap and moves to her back. “I think privacy is something they're willing to pay for.” Max’s strong fingers work magic on Eleanor’s tense shoulders. 

 

“And what are the goods exactly,” Eleanor asks, slowly warming under Max’s hands. 

 

“Ten to twenty thousand pesos you can fit in the palm of your hand,” Max says, concentrating on Eleanor’s neck. 

 

“And you know this deal is real?” Eleanor says. Eleanor pulls away from Max’s touch. “Max. How well do you know this contact?” She spins around in her seat to meet Max’s eyes. 

 

“As well as I know any of my contacts,” Max says, raising an eyebrow. “If you are interested,” Max says, pulling a small pouch from her corset. “A deposit,” Max says, pressing the heavy pouch into Eleanor’s hand. Eleanor runs a thumb across the fabric. The telltale shapes of gold bullion glide under her fingers. 

 

“What's in it for you?”

 

“Depends on the deal,” Max says. She looks out at the water from the window as she pours herself a drink. The sun stretches along the horizon, holding on to the last minutes of day with the tips of its rays. 

 

“And if it’s no good?” Eleanor asks with a challenge in her voice.

 

“Then at the very least I have a week ‘off the leash’ as you say,” Max says. 

 

“Well,” Eleanor says. “That, I can drink to.” 

 

Max smiles and clicks her glass to Eleanor’s before drinking deeply. Eleanor looks down, savoring the warmth running down her throat. A soft thumb brushes against her lip. Max’s fingers pull Eleanor’s mouth up to receive the piece of rock sugar wrapped in a thin slice of lime held in her lips. Max pulls back, holding a finger to Eleanor’s lips as she crushes the parcel with a few decisive bites. Eleanor stands from the chair, surprising Max. Something clicks in Eleanor’s mind as she pulls her into a kiss. Teeth and jagged crystals scrape over lips and tongues as their embrace intensifies. 

 

Fingers slip into Max’s hair as they stagger across the office. The hard edge of the desk knocks into the back of Max’s thighs. Eleanor lifts her onto the heavy wood with ease. Wedging between her thighs, Eleanor’s hands fly to up to Max’s corset. Her fingers get lost in a tight tangle of thread. Frustrated with Eleanor’s progress on the corset, Max pulls the fabric down. Max reaches out and grips Eleanor’s neck. A wet warmth grows between Eleanor’s thighs as Max pull her to lips to impossibly soft nipples. Max watches with hooded eyes as Eleanor’s lips open, taking her in. Max bucks against Eleanor’s hip as her tongue starts moving. 

 

“Ms. Guthrie!” A voice calls from behind the door. “Mr. Scott is waiting for you at the docks to receive payment from Captain Chesterfield!” 

 

“Fuck,” Eleanor groans, pulling back from Max. She bites her lip at the sight of Max, hair tousled, breathing hard with wet nipples spilling from her corset.

 

"Ms. Guthrie?!"

 

“Coming!” Eleanor yells, unable to tear herself from Max. 

 

“Go,” Max says, looking at the door. Eleanor nods, quickly fixing her hair and dress. With a quick kiss, she's out the door, hoping everyone (Mr. Scott) won’t notice exactly how drunk (just a bit) and horny (unbearably so) she is. 

 

 

The long grass blows in the wind. Vane crouches, hidden in the dry grass. His eyes sweep the beach methodically. Eleanor, Mr. Scott, and the resident “precious goods” expert gather around the edge of the dirt road leading into the far side of the island. He watches as they make their way towards a wrecked skiff, half embedded in the sand. A faint glow flickers from beyond the rotting wood. 

 

 

Down near the shore, Eleanor finds Octavio sitting on the sand besides a small fire. A pile of stones sit on a handkerchief, glittering lowly in the light. He smiles and waves for her to join him. She gathers her skirts and sits, crossing her legs. 

 

“What the hell is this?” Eleanor says. She reaches out and picks a pea sized rough from the cloth on sand.

 

“Emeralds,” Octavio says. He motions for the expert to examine the goods. “This is just a sample. I will have ten times this amount by the end of the month.”

 

Mr. Scott and the spectacled expert exchange several hushed whispers. He nods at Eleanor.

 

“I have interest in the goods. However, it may take a while to find a buyer of this magnitude,” Eleanor says, studying Octavio’s face. 

 

“How long?” Octavio asks. 

 

“Could be a day, could be a week could be a month.”

 

“Fair.” Octavio stands, reaching out to help Eleanor up.

 

“And the collateral?” Eleanor asks, taking his hand. 

 

“Well,” Octavio says, rubbing his beard. “We’ll take a ship.”

 

 

 

Vane watches as Eleanor and Octavio shake hands before parting ways on the beach. Octavio unhitches a tiny skiff in the moonlight and quickly disappears from view. Eleanor’s group returns to the horses tied to the coconut trees near the trail back into town. He quickly moves to follow when a movement across the sand catches his eye. 

 

 

“How much do you think we can get for those?” Eleanor says, pulling herself up onto the saddle. 

 

“Depends on if you’re willing to wait,” Mr. Scott says. “The Fortress will be here in a month or so. She sails to London at least twice a year and we know well enough the English pay premium for this sort of thing.”

 

“And in the mean time, if an attractive offer comes up, who’s to say no to anything?” Eleanor smiles as they embark on the ride back into town. 

 

Less than five minutes into the journey, Mr. Scott holds up a hand. The horses pause as Mr. Scott scans the deserted path. “Eleanor,” Mr. Scott says, motioning for her to be on the lookout. Eleanor realizes with dismay that they’re near the crossroads to the Wrecks. Among Nassau’s finest murders and rapes, about ninety percent of them occurred near the vicinity of the Wrecks. Two men step into the road, barring their path. 

 

“Well, it seems like someone’s lost.” A man with his front teeth missing smiles at his companion. 

 

“It looks it, doesn’t it.” The companion with a long scruffy beard nods. He pulls a long, battle worn cutlass from his scabbard.

 

“The goods, please.” The man flashes a toothless smile at Eleanor, followed by a wink. 

 

“You boys must be new in town,” Vane says, stepping from the shadows. “Don’t you know who this is?”

 

“We don’t care.” Both men nod. The toothless one spins a boarding pickaxe in his hands with anticipation. Vane smiles at the men. He strolls up to Eleanor and rests a hand on her knee. 

 

“Which goods exactly were in discussion?” Van asks, hand traveling down her leg. She leans discreetly to the side, taking her weight off the dagger stashed in her riding boot. 

 

“Fuck off,” Eleanor says loudly. Vane hides the blade in his palm as he saunters back to the two newest members of Nassau’s community. 

 

“It’s your night my friend,” Vane says, throwing an arm around the toothless man. “Who first? The nigger or-,” Vane stops speaking mid sentence as he grips the man’s neck in his arm. 

 

In a fluid motion, Vane slides the blade up through his chin into his throat. Yanking the blade from the underside of the pirate’s skull, he drops the body. Vane turns to find Mr. Scott launching himself at the other man from the saddle of his horse. They crash to the dusty ground together in a tumble of limbs. Mr. Scott’s hands finds a large, particularly jagged pieces of rock. The sound of a wet smack fills Eleanor’s ears. His hand falls once more, mashing skull with an expertise Eleanor wishes she hadn’t witnessed. 

 

“You were following me?” Eleanor says, staring at Vane. 

“You’re welcome,” Vane says, wiping the blood from Eleanor’s knife on his pant leg before offering the handle to Eleanor. She reaches out for the knife when a rifle goes off. A shot hurtles through the air, missing her by inches. Vane reaches up to calm Eleanor’s horse as it threatens to throw her. Two figures tumble into the road ahead. Tristan quickly rolls to her feet, wishing her tackle of the gunman went off smoother. She pulls a heavy dagger from her waist as she kneels on the man’s neck. Holding his forehead to the ground, she severs his windpipe and vocal chords with a practiced push of the blade. She vanishes into the shadows off the main trail before anyone can reach her. 

“I think it’s time we get back into town,” Mr, Scott says when he catches up to the body slumped in the dirt. He quickly rolls the body over to save Eleanor from the blood soaked shirt. 

“We would appreciate it if you accompanied us to town,” Mr. Scott says before Eleanor can speak.

 

“Certainly. It seems wise to travel in a group tonight,” Vane says, eyes locked on Eleanor. 

 

 

Several minutes after the trail grows dark and silent, Tristan emerges from the shadows. She quickly returns to the lookout point where she found the shooter. Several paces off the path,

a low whistle catches her ear. Tristan returns the calls in the dark. A slender, blonde young man from her crew emerges from the shadows. 

 

“Caio,” Tristan says approaching him. She glances behind him to see two more bodies in the shadows. One man lies, head lolling at a sharp angle. A rusted saber juts from the chest of the other. “We have to clean up.” 

 

“Where’s my brother?” Caio asks. He grasps a corpse’s ankles and drags him into the shadows. 

 

“Tavio’s doubling back. The captain will want to know tonight,” Tristan says, kicking away the spots of blood stained sand and dirt. 

 

“Do you think the deal is good?” Caio says, searching corpse’s pockets. 

 

“You can never say until the gold’s in your hand, can you?”

 

 

 

The lights and sounds of a festive town glow in the near distance. Vane slows his pace and falls back to Eleanor’s horse

 

“Eleanor,” Vane says, reaching out to grab Eleanor’s reins. 

 

“Thank you for helping us tonight, Charles,” Eleanor says, pausing to face Vane. She motions for Mr. Scott to retire for the night. 

 

“You know I would do it again in a heartbeat,” Vane says, stepping in close. Eleanor breaks her gaze away from Vane. The flickering light from Max’s temporary suite catches her eye.

 

“Hopefully that won’t be needed,” Eleanor says with a nervous smile. 

 

“Hopefully,” Vane admits. “Now, will you finally allow me to buy you a drink?” Vane asks, glancing at the tavern. 

 

“One.” Eleanor turns on her heels and marches towards the tavern. Vane smiles, pleased with himself. He watches as Eleanor rushes up the stairs to her office, in a hurry to lock away whatever it is she received from the large man on the beach, no doubt.

 

 

Max sighs, tired of watching the tavern. Eleanor’s office remains dark and locked. The gentle lull of crashing waves pulls Max from her thoughts. She throws a light veil over her hair before heading towards the beach. Max smiles behind the veil as she passes unnoticed through the streets of Nassau. Before she knows it, the town’s lights are mere speckles in the distance. A splash catches her attention. Max quietly peeks around a cluster of boulders on the beach. Out in the shallows, Tristan stands, with her back to land. 

 

“Are you clean enough yet?” Max calls from the sand.

 

“How long have you been there?” Tristan asks, wading in.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Max says, watching Tristan wring her shirt before shrugging back into the material. “Should we find you a hot bath?” Max asks. Water drips noisily into the sand as Tristan gives her hair a final squeeze.

 

“That would be nice.” 

 

 

“Idelle and the others are going to be jealous,” Max says, running her fingers through the steaming water. The large copper tub sitting in the middle of the room sloshes with water as Max empties the final bucket. 

 

“Why?” Tristan asks, turning her back to Max. “I’m sure Noonan would be happy to run hot baths all day if it meant paid bathing shows,” Tristan says, pulling off her damp clothing. She lowers herself into the bath, slowly easing into the steaming water. 

 

“I’ll ‘ave to talk to him about it,” Max says.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Tristan asks in alarm when a foot lands between her knees. 

 

“Don’t worry,” Max says, noticing the panic growing in Tristan’s eyes. Max smiles, slipping into the crowded tub, choosing to turn her back to the other girl out of what she thinks is courtesy. “I’m not charging you for this,” Max says, closing her eyes. 

 

“How generous of you,” Tristan mutters. Tristan fidgets while Max makes herself comfortable in the small container.

 

“Hush,” Max says. A surprisingly firm hand reaches down and squeezes Tristan’s ankle. It’s quiet for a moment before Tristan reaches for the soap and begins lathering Max’s shoulders. Max’s head sags as skilled hands set to easing her tensions.

 

“You saved my life. You didn’t have to.”

 

“It was nothing,” Max says. She leans forwards, welcoming the heat washing over her skin. 

 

“No.” Tristan’s voice is hard. She drops the soap in the water to grab Max’s hand. She presses Max’s fingers to the puncture scar on her abdomen. “It was something.” Tristan releases her hand and leans back, resting her head on the edge of the tub. Max runs her fingers over the scar tissue, feeling the skin dip under her touch. 

 

 

 

 

“One more, Eleanor!” Vane and the crowd of men chant, slamming mugs on the wooden table. “One more!” Vane laughs in triumph as Eleanor tosses back another two fingers of rum. Her blood boils as the excitement of the night well up inside her. A cheer goes up as she finishes her eighth drink of the night. 

 

“Ah! Fuck all your moms!” Eleanor shouts, slamming her glass to the table. She hisses in pain when the glass splinters under her hand. Blood wells up in a long slice across her palm. As the tavern grows louder, Eleanor quickly wraps her hand in her dress. Seizing an opportunity, Eleanor makes a quick exit as soon as Vane returns to the bar for another round. 

 

 

 

Obnoxious knocking rouses Max from her light slumber. She sits up, realizing she’s fallen asleep in the bath. Tristan yawns, waking under Max’s movements.

 

“Max?” Eleanor’s voice calls through the door. Max clambers from the tub and pulls a robe on. Tristan groggily follows suite, extending tire limbs from the cooling water. Her clothes hit her in the face as Max frantically gathers her belongings. 

 

“One moment,” Max says, pointing Tristan towards the shutters leading onto the balcony outside. Tristan scowls, sleepily gathering her clothing. The locks clicks loudly in the quiet night as Max opens the door. Eleanor stands, leaning heavily against the doorframe. O’Malley lingers down the hall. He catches Max’s eye and nods. Max returns the nod with a cordial smile. 

 

“What are you doing?” Eleanor asks, glancing in the candle lit room. Max turns to find an empty room. 

 

“Eleanor!” Max says, noticing the blood dripping from Eleanor’s hand. “What the hell are you doing?” She pulls Eleanor into the room and sits her on the bed. Eleanor watches as Max flits around the room, lighting several more candles. 

 

“Accident,” Eleanor says, dizzy from drink and blood loss. She lies down, holding out her dripping hand above the wood floor.

 

“Doing what?” Max asks. She gingerly rinses the blood stained hand. To her relief, the slash is shallow and clean . 

 

“Something stupid.” Eleanor sighs. “Remind me to never drink with Vane again.”

 

“You were drinking with Vane?” Max says, displeasure clear in her voice. 

 

“He sort of saved my life tonight,” Eleanor slurs. “The least I could do was let him buy me a drink.”

 

“A drink or ten?” Max says, wrapping her hand. 

 

“Are, are you mad?” Eleanor asks. She rolls to her side faces Max. “I’m sorry,” Eleanor says. She cups Max’s cheek and leans in for a kiss.

 

“Stop,” Max snaps, shoving Eleanor away. 

 

“I thought. I thought you like me,” Eleanor says, too drunk to hear herself.

 

“I do. But-,” Max says.

 

“But what?” Eleanor asks.

 

“You’ve been drinking the night away with Vane,” Max says, tying off the bandage.

 

“What’s your problem with him?” Eleanor asks.

 

“I have no problem with him. I have a problem with the way you act around him,” Max says. 

 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Eleanor asks.

 

“He’s been after you for a while now. You need to decide what you want with ‘im,” Max says. “Is not fair to keep ‘im on your leash.”

 

“He’s a dirty pirate,” Eleanor says, voice dismissive. 

 

“And what am I? You don’t seem to mind my company, yet you know exactly what it is I do for a living.”

 

“It’s different,” Eleanor says. She sits up and grabs Max’s hand. “Max.” Max allows Eleanor to pull her close. “Max please,” Eleanor says. She closes her eyes as Max’s hands cup her face. Max places a soft kiss on her lips, ignoring the waves of alcohol pouring off her with each breath. 

 

“Go to sleep, mon cher. Max will be here in the morning,” Max says, walking Eleanor to the door. “Can you make sure she gets home safe? And alone?” Max says to O’Malley. He nods, throwing Eleanor’s arm over his shoulder. 

 

“I thought it would be wise to stick around,” O’Malley says, propping Eleanor up. Although the Guthrie name and financial standing had influence, O’Malley’s always looked after Eleanor like a sister, since before she, in her words, ’sprouted tits’. Next to Mr. Scott, Max wouldn’t trust anyone else with an intoxicated Eleanor. 

 

“Thank you.” Max manages a tired smile. 

 

“Night Max.”

 

“Good night,” Max says. She watches him make his way down the stairs with Eleanor. Max shuts the door, content with Eleanor’s safety. “Not a word,” Max snaps as Tristan pushes the shutters open. She throws a rag at the soaking girl. Max watches as Tristan towels off. “I’m sorry,” Max says, gesturing at the door. 

 

“We need to speak about your friend,” Tristan says carefully. 

 

“What about her?” Max asks, tensing.

 

“She told her boyfriend about the meet,” Tristan says.

 

“Vane is not her boyfriend,” Max says too quickly. Tristan notes the sudden change in Max’s demeanor at the mention of Vane. She decides not to pursue the topic.

 

“Either way, her loose lips almost got her killed tonight.” Tristan says. “Consider who you trust very carefully,” Tristan says quietly. “And who you’re willing to put in danger for money.” 

 

 

 

Nassau 1715

 

 

Rackham’s heart thunders in his chest, picking up speed with every step he takes. He stares at the back of Hamund’s head, wondering if he or any of the others can hear his pulse taking off like a race horse. The stench of decay and saltwater fills his nose. His stomach drops completely when Anne disappears around the corner. The sound of sharpened metal entering flesh begins to fills the air. 

 

It’s several moments later when Rackham realizes the men behind him have vanished. He stumbles as he moves to find Anne. He pauses in the shadows, watching as Anne, O’Malley and a few others set to wiping the blood from her weapons. Rackham freezes when Anne spots him in the darkness. He turns, unable to look at her. 

 

Anne turns to find Tristan stumbling into the bloody clearing. Her hair hangs wild and loose, ripped from its leather ties. Blood, shiny and thick coats her arms up to her elbows. Anne wonders with admiration if Tristan went with her bare hands tonight. O’Malley turns and smiles warmly. They both reach out with an arm, grasping each other’s forearms tightly before hugging. O’Malley reaches out and grips the back of Tristan’s neck tightly. ‘It’s over,’ he mouths, waiting for Tristan to nod before letting go. 

 

 

The brothel sleeps quiet tonight. The balcony’s floorboards creak softly under bare feet. Tristan leaves her bloodied boots by the shutter doors as she sneaks into Max’s room. Panic wells in her chest when she sees nothing but an empty bed. A pained mewl breaks the deafening silence. Max lies, curled in the corner of the room besides an empty bath basin. Tristan quickly pulls a blanket from the bed to cover her exposed skin, the girl’s cold to the touch. In the morning, Max will wake in her bed, finally with someone else’s blood staining the sheets. 

 

 

Comments are always appreciated!


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